


Peacemakers

by hunenka



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Crack, Episode: s09e13 The Purge, Gen, but not really
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 05:23:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hunenka/pseuds/hunenka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the situation between Sam and Dean doesn’t seem to be getting better, Heaven and Hell join forces to fix the damage done. Or, at least, one particular angel and one particular demon do.</p><p>(I don't even know. I blame it on Sam and Dean - they're really killing me lately.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Peacemakers

Crowley pours himself another glass of Craig and settles comfortably in the motel chair. Or at least as comfortably as he can, considering that the chair is cheap, plastic and… well, _uncomfortable_. How the hell could the Winchesters survive staying in places like this their whole lives?

They had no other choice, that’s how. Just like Crowley has no other choice now, lying low and hiding in secrecy so Abaddon’s demons don't get to him before he finds the First Blade.

The door to the motel room opens and closes as someone enters.

Crowley doesn’t turn around to look who his visitor is. He’s been expecting him. “Hello, Castiel.”

“Crowley.” A deep, rough growl full of unconcealed contempt. The angel is in a bad temper, then.

“Things not going as smoothly as you’d like, mate?”

Suddenly Castiel is right in Crowley’s face. “For the last time, I am _not_ your mate. If the circumstances were different–“

Tired of the same old song, Crowley sighs heavily and pushes the angel away. “Yeah, I know. I’d be toast. Blah, blah, blah.” The threats aren’t very scary if you know they won’t be executed. “Now sit down and tell me what seems to be the problem this time.”

The angel makes a sour face but sits down into the offered chair. “They still haven’t made up.” He lets out a frustrated sound and runs his fingers through his hair, messing it up even more than it usually is. “They’re… they’re _keeping things strictly business_. Like they’re not brothers anymore.”

Oh, the never-ending melodrama. “Good. If they’re not brothers, maybe they could just shag finally, get all that pent-up sexual frustration out of their systems. I’m sure that would help.”

“You’re a pig, Crowley.”

“And you love me for it, darling.”

Power crackles in the air as Castiel glares. He’s apparently not in the mood for jokes and innuendo.

“Sorry, angel. I’ll play nice.”

“I sincerely doubt that.” But the buzz of power abates, showing that Castiel isn’t that keen on smiting Crowley after all. “Now let’s get back to the matter in hand.”

“Ah, yes. The epic love story of Sam and Dean, episode four million and twenty-three.” When Castiel’s eyes narrow dangerously, he quickly raises his hands in a gesture of surrender. “Alright, alright. But it’s not like I’m wrong. So what do we do with the boys?”

The angel shakes his head. “I have no idea. I’ve tried to talk some reason into Sam, and it seemed to work. He wanted me to extract Gadreel's leftover Grace from him so we could track and find the angel. The process would kill Sam and so I decided not to go through with it, without consulting him about it first.”

“Moose must’ve been pissed when he found out.”

“He was, initially. But then he admitted I was right, that his life was more important than finding Gadreel. I made a life-saving decision for him and he forgave me.” Castiel makes another frustrated sound. “But he won’t forgive Dean. He won’t even try to look at what happened from Dean’s perspective.”

Crowley shrugs and swirls the melting ice cubes in his glass. “He’s one stubborn fellow. They both are.”

Castiel snorts at that. “Don’t I know it.” Without asking for permission, he stands up, takes an empty glass out of the cupboard in the kitchenette and pours himself two fingers of whisky before sitting back down and taking a sip. “You know what Sam told Dean? That he only makes the sacrifices if he’s not the one being hurt.”

“That’s bollocks. He let Sam jump into the Cage, didn’t he?” Crowley downs the rest of his drink and slams the glass on the table, rattling the flimsy construction. “If that’s not a sacrifice that hurt _Dean_ then I don’t know what is.”

The angel nods. “And that’s not all of it. He told Dean if their situations were reversed he wouldn’t have saved him.”

It’s Crowley’s turn to nod. “And Dean, being the self-deprecating bundle of insecurity he is, completely missed that Sam was trying to tell him he would’ve respected his wishes, and took it as Sam telling him he doesn’t care about him anymore.”

“Yes.”

“Brilliant.” The situation would be ridiculous if it wasn’t so serious, and Crowley can’t resist rolling his eyes. “Even if they talk to each other, they never actually talk anything out. So, what do we do?”

“I’ll try to continue being the voice of reason in Sam’s ear,” the angel offers. “Try to discreetly make him see the situation from Dean’s point of view.” Sighing tiredly, he continues. “But Sam is not the biggest problem here, he’s not deteriorating like his brother.”

“Yes, Dean’s back on the bottle, I’ve noticed.”

Castiel averts his eyes, looking almost ashamed, like this is somehow his fault. “He’s always seen himself through the eyes of his family. And now, with the way Sam is treating him…”

“He feels completely worthless,” Crowley finishes. “And he won’t listen to you telling him otherwise because you’re his pal so you must be biased.”

“Yes.”

“So again, it’s up to me.”

“Yes.”

Crowley thinks back to that night after he and Dean paid visit to Cain. “You know, the last time I tried to tell him he was worthy, he just ignored me completely. It was like talking to a brick wall.”

Moving at lightning speed, Castiel leans over until he’s once again right in Crowley’s face and growls, “Then you have to try harder.”

“I’ll do my best.” With one finger pressed into the center of Castiel’s chest, Crowley gingerly pushes the angel away. “I’m meeting him tomorrow night to brief him on my progress with finding the Blade.”

“Good.” Castiel downs the rest of his whisky and stands up. “Don’t screw it up.”

Turning in his chair, Crowley watches his reluctant partner in crime head towards the door. “What? No kiss goodnight?”

The angel doesn’t dignify that with a reply, just walks out, slamming the door behind him with much more force than necessary.

The demon chuckles because he’ll never grow tired of riling the blue-eyed angel up, but his laughter dies in his throat as his eyes fall on the half-drank bottle of whisky on the table in front of him, making him think of Dean again. Wherever the hunter is right now, there’s a fat chance he’s working his way through a bottle too, only his whisky will be of the cheap kind and he’ll probably drain it much faster than Crowley will.

If Dean continues down this self-destructive path he’ll get himself killed long before Crowley finds the First Blade, long before he gets the chance to kill that red-headed skank Abaddon.

And that’s the only reason Crowley’s worried about the Winchesters.

Right?


End file.
